


Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

by LadyLaela (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Developing Relationship, M/M, Past Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LadyLaela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You tell yourself it's impressive you haven't blown your brains out, but sometimes the fucking futility of this so-called job makes you really think about it. You talk to yourself a lot and sometimes you think that in and of itself is pretty sad, but when you contemplate the fact that you're talking to the whole empty goddamn city and still talking to yourself; holy shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You're in it for the long haul.

At least you're a lot better set up than most. Generators? You've got em. There's a ton of the fuckers around because they're needed on set to run the enormous night-as-day lights. You have a huge, remotely-locked gate controlled by a buzzer, twenty-five foot cement walls topped with barbed wire, a security camera perimeter, and a gun cabinet for fucks sake.

You also have a great big ham radio setup. 

"Party of nine on the four-forty five. Some wounded. Tail looks medium rare. You read? Over."

"We read you, Hollywood. Timestamp on first visual contact? Over." You're honestly shocked they don't call you Texas or some shit, your drawl isn't exactly considered usual in California.

"Timestamp is now, base. Will begin broadcast at 1800 hours. Do not know communications status." You take your finger off the button. "Uh. Over." Oops. You never claimed you weren't a shitty relay station. 

"Do one now, then every hour starting at 1800. Over."

You roll your eyes. They're not fucking listening right now, they're busy trying not to die, but okay.  You broadcast every night from that time anyways. God these bastards are lucky you did some radio communications before you dropped out of college. "If you insist. Hollywood over and out."

You fiddle with a few dials. Wow, this was really not the skill you'd expect to end up using in life. You change the frequency to your broadcast, taking a deep breath. "If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."

With a heavy sigh, you flip back to the frequency you usually sit on. You wish you could chat with the sweet old broad the next relay over, if only to relieve your crushing boredom. Check ins with base are the only time you hear another human voice - you're supposed to stay off the line as much as possible so people can contact you. 

Maybe it's the fact that you were a hermit most of the time even before shit went to hell that staves off your depression. You feel like a lot of other people would've offed themselves after not seeing another human face as long as you have. You spend a lot of time writing, a hell of a lot more time than when it was your fucking job.

You also spend a lot of time masturbating. If Rosie were here, she'd probably go on about how you're compensating for a total lack of physical contact. 

Rosie is dead. You don't know it for sure, but you know it. You'll never see her again.

You tell brain-Rosie that you're just bored. If she had a dick, she'd understand. It's just something to do. It's empty and stupid and totally devoid of pleasure; literally just a distraction. Getting out the tissues and hand lotion makes you feel thirteen, even though you're nearly forty and your libido can barely keep up with the amount of distraction you want.

Your orgasm feels more like a sneeze you can't get out than a building of pleasure. Is this how it feels to be asexual? You wonder if you are asexual.

Or you're just getting old and you jerk off too much.

There's a little relief when you're done; it makes a little of your tension go. For a minute. That's it.

You clean your hand methodically and button your pants. You suppose you have shit to do.

By shit to do you mean target practice. 

You leave the storage container. It's cooler outside, if only because of the sun beating on the big curved metal piece of shit you usually live in. As soon as you're outside you can hear the moans, many of them far and faint, but regardless an ever present background noise. You're supposed to stay near the radio, but honestly fuck that. As much of a hermit as you might be, even you get restless in that stuffy fucking metal tube.

Scrambling up the side of the container in the west most corner is much easier since you bolted one of the really big ladders to the side. You're not a handy guy, but you can do some basics now out of necessity. You climb up to your shitty little crows nest, taking your long distance rifle from under the tarp it's wrapped in.

You're a total tool with a gun - any enthusiast would probably cry if they saw how you kept the things. You don't know how to clean one or unjam one. You're crappy and slow at loading. You drop a lot of shells.

Your aim is improving, though. 

Squinting down through the sight, you take careful aim for a headshot on one of the small shambling forms. Breathe out and squeeze the trigger.

You're a little low, but you must have hit the jugular because blood spurts out in a pathetic little jet, and the fucker doesn't go down. Okay. You cock the gun again, letting out a soft breath through your teeth as you depress the trigger once more. 

The form drops, and you smile humourlessly. 

At least it's something to do.

As soon as the sky starts to grey, you don't even bother to keep trying. Any drop in visibility makes this pretty fucking futile; plus your ass is sore as hell from sitting on a ridged aluminum tube. You wrap up the gun, reaching up your arms to stretch and groaning as your back pops. Shit you're old as hell. You slide stiffly to the ladder, letting yourself be slow because why not. It isn't as though you have anything to do other than speak a prewritten message into the abyss, then sit there vegetating while waiting for an answer that rarely comes. Wash rinse repeat.

You tell yourself it's impressive you haven't blown your brains out, but sometimes the fucking futility of this so-called job makes you really think about it. You talk to yourself a lot and sometimes you think that in and of itself is pretty sad, but when you contemplate the fact that you're talking to the whole fucking empty city and still talking to yourself; holy shit.

So far as you know, you're the only guy left in Hollywood. Some survivors pass through on their way to the LA colony, and some of them even make it; but you're the only pretty person left from this sad little subdivision of the super rich and famous. 

You didn't even really like most of those people; but the fact that every fucking rich whore and talentless hack and sycophant at the last afterparty you went to is dead and probably shambling around out there ready to kill you is sobering in ways you barely understood something could be.

"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."

Your call sign is more a reference to your former fame than anything; a little snappier than 'that director guy'. However, you can't help but think of it as a reminder that you're the last asshole around here.

Writing feels worthless because you know no one will ever read it, but it also helps you deal with your other dumbass emotions. Getting really into the notebook numbs you almost as much as the coke did back when you were young and stupid enough to do that shit.

It's not as good as the pills the doctor gave you were, but there's not much hope of getting more of that.

"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."

It's a litany, a thing you say six times daily, a speech you make from sunset till midnight. You say it out into the abyss and the abyss stares back at you and tells you you're alone.

"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."

Again and again. You count the hours as they pass, you scribble in the notebook, you make your mechanical speech, you jerk off and don't even know why. Your tired eyes watch the battery powered clock from behind shades you have no idea why you still wear, and after speaking the message the sixth and final time, you toss them onto the desk. You fiddle with the dials once more, then drag yourself over to the nest of shit you sleep in. The base is a huge stunt mat, and it's covered in everything you could dig out of soft storage - silk elizabethan reproduction pillows, sleeping bags, wool travelling blankets, classic quilts. It's comfortable in its way, but you feel like if you had a real fucking mattress your back wouldn't ache so much.

You strip nude and crawl in, straining to reach the industrial switch you rigged to an extension cord. The hanging halogens flick off with a little buzz, and with their hum absent the container seems eerily silent.

Closing your eyes, you slowly adjust to the sounds outside - mostly the whirr of your generator. If you really focus you can hear the soft groans and wails of what's left of Hollywood Hills, but you tune it out. You don't want to listen to it.

That's the quickest way a man can go mad.

…

You roll out of bed whenever you wake up, not exactly early since there's no windows in your tin can. You flick the lights on with another buzz, and spend a moment just contemplating your achey body. Fuck, you miss long hot showers more than almost anything else.

Long hot showers makes you think of something else, makes you remember things you don't want to, and the thought comes before you can stop it.

At least he didn't have to live in a world without showers.

You ignore the pang in your chest, dropping yourself down in the swivel chair you spend most of your time in without bothering to put on any clothes. Who's here to see you naked? No one's going to ogle your package or comment on the fact that your chest hair is frosted silver. Already, at your age.

Pawing for the receiver, you blearily move the dials to 5.425.9. 

"Yo, granny. You there? Over." You jam your shades on your face, not caring how ridiculous that is. You feel more dressed with them on than you would with actual clothes. Staring petulantly at the receiver in your hand is all you can do while you wait for a response.

"Course I am!" Her cheerful voice crackles through the radio, and you sigh and lean back. Wow, is it ever a relief to talk to someone. "You better be surviving over there, Mr. Strider. Over!"

"Doing fine, ma'am. Been working on my sharpshooting. Over."

Predicably, she cackles with glee - one of said gun enthusiasts who would probably cringe at your firearms. Hell, that's probably why the old battle-axe made it this far. "Good boy. I need numbers to be proud of you! Over."

"Thirty-three, only five misses. Over."

"Excellent!" The radio crackles static in protest at her excited volume. "I told you, it's all about staying calm and taking deep breaths. No need to panic with a good rifle in your hand! Over."

This woman is probably fucking nuts, and you've always known it; but she's nuts in all the right ways. Her totally batshit gun obsession was no doubt crucial to her survival of the first wave; in just the way you blame your shitty as fuck foster care upbringing. No one knew how to run and hide and when to stand and fight like you did.

"I'm bored as hell over here. Been dead for weeks, haha. Over."

The answering giggle was almost little girlish. "You need a dog, you poor boy. Haley's such a blessing! He always cheers me up. Over!"

"Don't need no mutt." You grumble. Inwardly, you don't want to admit another warm body might be nice, another living, breathing thing. "Where would I even get one of those? Guess I'll just stroll on down to the pet shop. Over."

Another giggle. "If Haley ever brings home a ladyfriend, I'll send her your way! Over!" How the hell does someone sound so excited saying over? It honestly ceased having any meaning as a word to you long ago.

"I'll keep an eye out. Over." You reply dryly. Honestly, you're not even that big on dogs. How the fuck would she send you a dog? Walk it over? Air drop it? Christ.

"I've got to go clear my perimeter! Nice chatting with you dear. Over!" 

You lean back in your chair and sigh heavily. "Same. Over." 

The receiver gets tossed carelessly back to the desk, and you don't really feel like getting up right now. You spin yourself slowly in the chair, staring at the halogens on the ceiling. Sometimes you think what it'd be like if you went to the colony; helped out with the whole 'start over' thing. Get a new life.

If he'd lived, you probably would have. 

You'd done everything for that kid for so long that you forget how it feels to have any other purpose.

Like the rest of Hollywood Hills, you're floating in the pointless void of nonbeing.

Eventually, you drag your sorry bare ass out of the chair; mostly because you have to piss. You pry open the plastic paint bucket, wrinkling your nose - yeah, it might only be piss, but you really have to empty this thing soon - and let loose the sour stream from the night before. It seems like it takes forever for your bladder to empty, but finally you can seal the bucket again and pull on some threadbare clothes. Most of the costumes were stored at an indoor studio, not here, and out of those that were here, most were not for your size or sex. Fortunately, the majority of what was available were plain, every day clothes; as opposed to historical or sci fi shit. 18th century menswear was really goddamn impractical.

You decide to waste some time shaving. You're really glad your facial hair isn't out of control - it takes you a week at least to grow what most would consider a three-day beard - but it's still itchy and nasty as hell. You always feel gross unless you're clean and smooth.

Then it's time for a pretty unappetizing but necessary lunch of canned green beans and a protein bar. You're not sure whether you've gotten used to eating total shit or if your taste buds are just dead. It's a nice, warm, sunny day; so you sit outside, but soon find yourself too depressed by the big echoing emptiness of the outdoor studio compound and retreat to your tin fucking can.

The next few hours, as usual, are spent monitoring cameras. Not just yours, which are usually hella boring, but various traffic and security cameras on main roads that some asshole managed to rig up to your system ages ago. Whoever maintains that shit must be crazy, and if anyone asked you it's not worth it. Seeing anything even remotely worthwhile is pretty uncommon; and you feel like a lot of poor bastards have died running out to fix these things. Eventually, you give up and return to fucking around in your current notebook.

Finally it's 1800, and you lazily scoop up the receiver. "If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out." As usual, it goes like clockwork. Your shitty ass brain wishes you could take something to check out for a while - coke, valium, booze, fucking anything.

Maybe you should've learned how to cope with your problems while your problems were still normal. Maybe you should've listened to Rose while she was around.

Too late now.

"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out." On the hour, every hour. Like clockwork.

As you fiddle the dials back to your personal station, you hear something that catches your attention.

It's the unmistakable hiss of an open channel.

For a moment, you just sit at stare at the rig like it can give you answers. It's been months and months since anyone actually buzzed you back. You're in the middle of slowly reaching for your receiver to prompt your contact to speak when they suddenly do.

A thick, deep Texan accent is discernible even through the popping and crackling of your radio. "Hey, Hollywood."


	2. Chapter 2

Your mouth is dry. Wow, holy shit. How do you talk to people again? "Hey." It comes out rough.

He chuckles a little. It sounds forced, like he's putting on a bit of an act. "What part a'Texas you from?"

"… Houston." What the fuck is wrong with your throat? It's not even like you don't talk; you send out six messages a day and have weekly check-ins with the colony. In all likelihood it's been a lot longer since this guy's talked to someone. "… over." 

"Thought so. My hometown. You're a real city boy though, ain't you?"

He caught you. A fair few of your opposite numbers in Cali or New York (fuck, especially New York) would refer to you as a 'hick'; especially if they were wasted. Anyone from the South usually knew better - you never fucking left downtown Houston until you made it big and were shipped off to the Hills. "Sure am." You feel like an idiot for saying 'over' when he isn't, so you drop the pretense. Hell, maybe that's what's making you so uncomfortable. You can't remember the last conversation you had where you didn't tack 'over' to the end of every sentence. Fuck, you should be doing your actual job. "… how many are with you?"

There's a long pause, long enough to make you almost a little concerned - in the middle of it is the pop of open air as his finger depresses the button, but he doesn't speak. His voice sounds… different, distinctly different. It's thicker and throatier, and although you were never good with people and your isolation is certainly not making you any better, anyone still alive these days knows what grief sounds like. "… just me. Lil' bro's not here anymore." 

'Lil' bro'.

You physically feel your heart drop. Well, maybe not so much drop as shrivel and blacken into a painful husk. Unbidden images rise in your mind, things that make your desire to black yourself out almost overwhelming. It's what makes you wake up in the middle of the night with a sob caught in your throat, what makes you break things just because they were there and you needed to fucking take it out on something.

A gaze that could always be described as nothing if not determined and fearless; full of fear. Orange eyes welling with tears, a gangly teenager's body trembling in your arms.

Lil' bro's not here any more.

"You there, Hollywood?" His voice cracks a little but it's much closer to how it was before.

"… yeah." Your throat is tight, tighter than it was before. You should be giving him co-ords and instructions on getting to the LA colony, but you can't make your voice work. This is your whole job, even though personally instructing people is a damn infrequent part of it. Do your job. Dammit, open your mouth and do your job. 

Your mouth is open and you can't make the words happen.

Lil' bro's not here any more.

"You'll wanna turn off the freeway onto Vermont." Your mouth says it without your permission. "You on the freeway?"

"Where you takin' me, Hollywood?" He's forcing the humor back into his voice. "Pretty sure the colony's way past the Hills."

"… it is. I'm not." You have no idea what the hell you're saying or why you're leading him here. Are you fucking crazy? He could easily be infected, or some nutball. Your loneliness has been really getting to you, true, but this is over the top. Get a grip.

"Okay." Just okay. He doesn't question you; voice revealing nothing but mild amusement. Not that you can trust that, as even you can see it's his front.

You keep walking him through it, giving him time to write down the directions. You're almost as mechanical as you are during your scripted speech; totally unable to justify your actions.

"I'll be there when I'm there. Probably late tonight, but it depends on hostile activity." He sounds like he knows what he's doing. Though he should, as he's still alive - not that there aren't total fucking idiots still running around, somehow.

"I'll cherry pick for you. Should be fine once you get close." You feel strangely numb, like your brain can't actually accept what it just made you do.

"Aight, appreciate it. Out." The line was silent for only a second before it hissed into life again. "… should probably let you know m'name's Derek. Seems polite."

Fuck. You haven't told anyone your real name in ages - Hollywood is usually your only relevant title. If you didn't talk to yourself so much, you feel like your name would sound strange to you. "Dean."

Your finger continues to hover over the button. Neither of you speak. You stare at your radio setup vacantly.

His end of the line pops back in. "Now I'm out."

"… out." You swallow, your throat still dry and tight. Taking your finger off the button, you set your receiver down. For a while, you just sit there. You don't want to think. The orange eyes are too close to the surface - they plead with you and haunt you and you wish nothing more than to drown them in a bottle of brandy.

There's no booze left, so you put your fingers to your temples and squeeze your eyes shut and force away the eyes, force away the feeling of his last breath shuddering out under your hand.

 

…

 

"Breathe out…" you mutter as you do, depressing the trigger of the rifle nestled comfortably agains your shoulder. "Good shot; if you keep it up you might make a difference in the next hundred years, dumbass." A lot of people - people like Rosie - might say you were comforting yourself by making a human voice for you to hear, or talking with the ghosts of your dead friends, or compensating for lack of other people to talk to. Other people less interested in psychology would probably just say you were losing it.

The truth was, you'd talked to yourself as long as you could remember. The 'end of the world' didn't change that one way or the other.

Maybe that was another reason you were better equipped to deal with this than most.

"There you fucking are," it takes a few minutes for another to stumble into view around a warehouse. You level another shot, taking it nice and slow. "Theeeere you fucking are. Come to papa you shambling piece of crap. Yesss," you hiss as your sight comes to rest in just the right place. "I'm going to fuck you up so bad, you just wait. Too bad you don't have any friends to send back to your shitty zombie king to warn him D Stride is in the house." Your mouth is only barely connected to your brain most of the time, honestly. You know most of what pours out of it is incredibly stupid, but you're also almost never aware of it. You squeeze the trigger, absorbing the kick of the gun.

You completely miss. "Are you kidding," you grumble to yourself, levelling the rifle again. It isn't until you peer through the scope again that you notice it's gotten pretty dark, much more so than when you started out. No fucking wonder you missed. "Better do," you say aloud. "Let's hope this asshole is at least competent enough to fend off a few corpses." You tuck the rifle away before sliding off the roof, stiffly as usual. It looks like it might rain, but it's too early to tell. You squint up at the sky, not sure if you'd be more pissed off if it did or it didn't.

Rain meant that the rain barrels would fill and you'd have some wash water - you certainly have some laundry that could stand doing. It also meant you could run outside and take a nice, if cold as hell, shower.

However seeing as you live in a sardine tin; if the rain got heavy it sounded like a twenty-one gun salute performed repeated with AK-47s. "That's enough to give anyone a migraine," you mutter at the dark clouds as you return inside. You're sure you can't expect him quite yet; you know it's a long walk. 

You broadcast your last two signals of the day to pass the time before parking yourself in front of the wall of shitty TVs hooked up to arguably shittier security cameras. You rest your chin in your hands, staring blankly at the screens and waiting to see anything that looks like it might still be alive.

It's a good two hours before you do. You'd say you were cripplingly bored, but you were essentially numb to boredom these days. You spent so much of your time insanely bored that it had ceased being an actual feeling, a lot like over had ceased being an actual word.

Movement flickers into a screen and you know immediately that it isn't one of them because they can't move that fast. You don't see much of him, the cameras are really fucking laggy and he isn't sticking around. You admit to being curious as hell, and who wouldn't be? It's been years since you saw another human being up close and personal.

You wonder if you should be nervous. Paparazzi trained vanity into you, but you shove that down because it's obviously fucking stupid when the world has more or less ended. You probably wash more than he does. You're pretty sure people don't judge people any more seeing as they're an endangered species.

But what do you know about people?

You jump, startled when he presses the buzzer. Son of a bitch. 

"…ou might wanna hurry up. Got a tail on me here." The sound quality on the buzzer is worse even than the radio, but you can still distinguish what he's saying.

The gate requires a short code, and you hammer it in before pressing the open button. You glance over to the screen showing the front gate, just in time to see it arthritically jump into action. It's a big gate, big enough to admit trucks full of scenery and supersized movie star trailers. It does not move quickly. You see him turn his back to the opening, weapon drawn. From the position of his arms, you're pretty sure it's a sword, not a gun. Fuck's sake.

He's already shouldered through the opening, it's not like it takes it long to be wide enough for a person. You don't even waste time waiting for said 'tail' to come on the screen before you're grabbing the shotgun you keep next to the mandoor out of your storage box. You slam your hand against the 'gate close' button before running out.

It hasn't occurred to you yet that is is exactly why it was so goddamn stupid to bring someone here, but it will when you have time to think.

As you run towards the gate, feet pounding the pavement, you're already fumbling for the safety on the gun. Fuck this gate and whoever put it here, it's still making a melodramatic scene out of swinging open.

Now you see his tail - half a dozen or so corpses, probably thirty feet away from the gate. He's backing towards you, and you raise the shotgun to butt up against your shoulder. "Get down!"

His obedience is as immediate as you'd expect - in this day and age a guy doesn't last long if they don't hit the fucking deck at the slightest provocation. Your shades click against the sight as you squint through it. You don't have to try as hard with this thing as you do with a rifle, but that doesn't mean you can just shoot wild either. You're not anywhere near good enough with a gun for that.

You pull the trigger, and grunt as you feel the recoil bruise you. You're shocked that one of the bodies actually drops. You must be getting better at this. Most of the pellets went wild, tearing ribbons of flesh off the rest, but you're pretty sure that's the price you pay for using a fucking shotgun.

Pumping to reload does feel pretty fucking badass though.

The empty shell bumps against your foot as it falls, and you raise the gun again as the gate finally clangs and shudders in its fully open position. "Chrissake." You mutter under your breath. The next shot is way off, and only blows out a kneecap. Great, now it's just going to be disgusting while it comes at you.

Your only concern now is keeping them back far enough that the gate can close. When you pump and squeeze again, the pain in your shoulder becomes almost crippling. Holy shit, the rifle is a sweet little baby compared to this thing. You gasp for breath, not realizing you were holding it, and taste burnt gunpowder.

It's funny how time seems to move slowest in moments like this one; when it's all over in seconds.

The pealing of ricochet is almost deafening, and you jump at a sudden firm hand on your shoulder - guy's got serious balls to do something like that when you've got a gun in your hand.

"You got a deathwish?"

"No, you're so terrible with that thing I thought I'd be okay. Hand it over."

Having no time to be offended, you relinquish the gun immediately. You can take him at his word that he's better than you; most people are. There's four left walking and a crawler. He barely takes time to aim before the booming report of the gun makes your ears ring again; and another one drops. You don't regret your decision to hand it over.

The gap between the gates narrows as they swing closed with agonizing slowness, and this time he takes a little longer to choose his shot. You risk a brief glance over at him, but don't get time for much more than an impression of stoney determination and a hard-angled face.

You look back just in time to see a jawbone shatter. For a second, you think he made an unfortunate near miss. Then the woman falls, and there's only two and the crawler left. He takes a step forwards, and you realize you're holding your breath again.

The next two shots come as fast as he can pump, and you feel like you shouldn't be surprised that neither miss. The gate comes together seconds later with a shuddering clang, and you follow like a puppy as he calmly walks up to it and puts the barrel of the gun through the bars to put down the crawler.

Businesslike, he hands the gun back to you, and it's only now that you really have the chance to take him in.

He's dirty and sunburned, roughly equal to your height - though from what you can see he might well be better built than you. His face is angular, as covered by sunglasses as yours is, and not one bit less intense when he doesn't have a gun held up to it. Your interest is immediately piqued at the asian sword strapped to his back, and you wonder if he's any good with that too.

You know he's giving you an equally unabashed once-over, and he sticks out a hand. "Nice to see ya. Dean, was it? Looks like I've given you more excitement than you've had around here in a while."

"No kidding." You stare at his hand for a second before you actually remember what the fuck you're supposed to do with it. Dirk would be so proud.

You ignore the pain his memory always brings, and give his hand the most professional shake you remember how to do. His grip is considerably firmer than yours.

"Come on. I'll… show you the place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the great feedback guys! I really didn't want to fall into the 'every zombie story' traps if I could avoid it. Fortunately, if there's one thing I know a lot about it's horror genres. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.


End file.
